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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27246229">Liminal Spaces</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RalphTime/pseuds/RalphTime'>RalphTime</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Happy Ending, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Memories, No Smut, One Shot, Romantic Fluff, non-sexual nudity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:41:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27246229</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RalphTime/pseuds/RalphTime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor lays awake in bed with Hank for the first time. He has no idea what the future will hold but he’s going to make sure this moment lasts forever in his memory.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hank Anderson/Connor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Liminal Spaces</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I got 1 (one) cuddle and wrote a whole fic because I’m an ex-touch starved little bastard. Proof I am sometimes wholesome</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>The beginnings of morning light have started to fill up the bedroom. My eyes are closed but I can sense the change from the rich darkness of the night before. I haven’t been into stasis. Last night I knew I should have gotten up to close the bedroom curtains or the dawn would wake Hank too early but I couldn’t bring myself to leave his side. Once again, the concept of getting up and shutting them crosses my mind and is quickly dismissed. Nothing seems more important than being exactly where I am right now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve missed this feeling. Before I deviated, every moment of my life was spent secure in the knowledge I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. Androids may not have dopamine but there was certainly some kind of pleasant rush when I completed even the smallest of tasks. Since the revolution, nothing has been simple. Every choice I make has been blind, and even the choices that seemed satisfactory at the time kept me awake at night, worrying. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Human friends have told me this is normal. The best thing, they say, is trying to enjoy the small victories and not ruin them by considering they may lead to numerous other disasters. I think this is incredibly short sighted of them. Perhaps they’re unaware of just how many different threads of possibility are attached to the smallest of choices. I’ve never had the luxury of ignorance. Preconstruction software was implanted within me for case related duties, yet these days I find myself applying it to every human contact I have. Humans are far too unpredictable. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Last night’s choices were so large and potentially life destroying that I should have spent the entire night mapping and re-mapping how they’ll most likely affect me. Us, I suppose. But instead, for the first time since deviating, I’ve found stillness. The bedroom has become a liminal space. Time keeps a respectful distance here. I don’t fear the morning. I’m aware it might bring catastrophic change. As soon as his eyes open he might look down at me with disgust- or worse, pity. He might feel anything from regret to euphoria to see me curled up under his arm. And I’m willing to face that, because this seemingly never ending moment just before the fall is so beautiful I’m sure I can sustain myself on it forever. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve started recording. Not just sight and sound, but sensation too. I’m taking in everything to play back to myself whenever I need to feel this </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>right</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> again. In case I never do. My eyes are closed. I’ve spent most of the night mapping Hank’s curves and contours in the changing light. The glimmer of the moon made his beard shine back more silver than bland grey. It made me smile. If I opened my eyes now I wouldn’t see his face, I’d see the wide expanse of his chest up close, a thick forest of grey hairs across it. I could watch the faded ink of his tattoo rise and fall as he breathes. I tried to breathe along in time with him for a while. I imagined my thirium pump syncing up with the beat of his heart. That wouldn’t be possible. Hank’s heart beats so unsteadily even when he’s resting, a gentle stumbling arrhythmia. It suits him, strangely. The confident rhythm interrupted by a few extra beats every so often reminds me of the way he spoke last night. Bold, plain statements about his feelings occasionally interrupted by a dismissive wave of his hand and mumbling about how he was a ‘stupid old fuck’ or how he probably shouldn’t have said anything. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I nestle closer into his chest. He’s so warm. His bare chest feels almost hot against the exposed casing on my cheek. A few of his chest hairs tickle the tip of my nose, and I breathe in his scent. A little sweat mixed with the whiskey he clutched like an anchor as we spoke last night. His drinking has improved considerably and I can’t fault him for needing some liquid courage to stomach the conversation. God knows if I had the ability I’d have had some myself. Beneath that scent, and the cigarette smoke, and the detergent from the sheets covering us, is a smell I know as ‘Hank’. It’s impossible to properly describe. Warm and rich, definitely. But other than that, all I can say is that it’s become the smell of home to me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hank shifts in his sleep, turning his head towards me so his nose is now touching the top of my head. I can feel the way his gentle snoring breezes through my hair, hot and comforting. He’s still asleep, but he’s aware of me. I know this because he instinctively lifts his chin to plant a gentle kiss on my forehead before continuing to snore. I hope he’s aware of me, anyway, not dreaming of some past lover, but for the moment I’m content to take what I can get. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not certain if I count as a lover, I don’t have the appendages necessary to consummate a relationship. (I’m glad Hank hadn’t been too surprised by that). But he’d taken me to bed anyway, to talk and kiss, then hold each other in a comfortable silence. He had fallen asleep on his side, his hand on my cheek, thumb gently stroking the plastic casing I’d been afraid of showing him. I needn’t have worried, he fought to keep his eyes open to take me in as much as he could before falling asleep. I’m used to being looked at as though I am a work of art. In many ways, I am one. Awe and intrigue were common expressions on the faces of investors and sponsors touring the Cyberlife labs where I was first activated. I stood behind glass, waved and introduced myself when told to the delight and polite applause of several groups of philanthropists. My mind is supposed to be my most exciting feature but I’ve learned humans prefer to pleasantly coo at my physical features. Hank does not look at me as if I am a work of art. Hank looks at me as if I am something rare and alive: a stag sighted close up and magnificent in a forest clearing. The awe in his eyes seems more focused on the fact I’m allowing him so close. Sometimes he seems lightly amused by features he hadn’t noticed before like the feel of my hair or the freckle in the dip of my collarbone. I don’t know what I look like when I look at Hank, but I know it makes him blush and smile almost apologetically. I want to kiss him when he smiles like that. I always want to kiss him when he smiles. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I expected to spend the night watching him sleep from my side of his bed, but even asleep Hank doesn’t seem ready to let me go. Every time he turns or readjusts he reaches out and finds some way to fit our bodies together. Right now his right arm is wrapped around my back, holding me close to his chest. Mine is draped across his stomach and his left hand is resting on top of my wrist. He holds me more tightly than I thought a sleeping human could. Protective, perhaps. Or- I smile and sigh into his chest at the thought- possessive like Sumo is over his favourite teddy when he sleeps. I came into deviancy completely unsure what my true purpose in life would be and now teddy bear seems like a very inviting option. His fingers lightly stroke my back. There’s more friction against my plastic casing than there would be against synthetic skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I like it better this way. I can feel everything so vividly, and I feel as though the touch is meant for </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>me</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>, not for the attractive human-like features I was created with. It’s one of the many things I love about Hank. Ever since we met, he’s been steadfast in seeing me for who I was, even if who I was was an irritant or an enemy. He never saw a shiny new RK800, he looked up at me and without faltering saw a young, arrogant detective who needed taking down a peg or two. He saw me as afraid when I was afraid, not malfunctioning. He’s always seen everything about me just the way it is. I wish he saw himself like that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hank stirs and his hand is off my wrist as he stretches and groans. It’s no surprise he’s feeling stiff given how long we’ve been laying like this. I hear him swear under his breath as he arches his back a little until it clicks, then relaxes again. His right arm is still tight around my back, pulling me closer in if anything. He rests his head back on the pillow and sighs. He’s awake, but I don’t look up. I focus harder on saving every detail of this. Birds have started up a sweet chatter outside the window. My thigh is linked over his and the coarse hair of his leg feels rough but comforting. His stomach isn’t rising and falling as heavily as it did when he was sleeping, but the rhythm of it is still pleasant. I breathe in one last heady hit of his smell. Safe, warm. Hank. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[External audio detected] </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m not ready to leave this recording just yet</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I turn my face up and find he’s not looking at me. His beard is pressed flat against his square jaw in a patch where he’s been resting against my head. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[External audio detected]</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Connor?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He turns to face me, silent and sleepy still. His hand moves off my back and my thirium pump falters for a moment before I feel him start running his fingers through my hair. I give him a small smile and he returns a much broader one. He clears his dry throat then opens his mouth to speak-</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>[External physical input detected] </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Markus is patting my shoulder. He sounds a little concerned so I blink a few times to bring myself properly back to the present. The light in his garden studio is so much brighter than the dim glow in my memory of the bedroom and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Markus stands up straight beside my chair </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Welcome back to reality. I thought we’d lost you for a moment, Connor!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I rub my eyes and smile up at him, mumbling some apologies. I feel stiff from sitting still so long, and I’m suddenly aware of how cold it is with my synthetic skin retracted and cover myself back up with it. He beams back down at me, understanding as always. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think we’re done, are you ready to take a look?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I nod and stand up, following him to the other side of the studio where a large easel has been set up with a canvas. Markus is making some kind of apology about the passage of light needing a few finishing touches and I shake my head in amusement. I guess all RKs are built to be ceaseless perfectionists. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Markus takes his stool in front of the canvas and I stand behind him, a hand on his shoulder</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, any thoughts?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a moment I truthfully have no coherent thoughts whatsoever. I knew he’d do a wonderful job, but this is… something else. At first it had been difficult. I’d been stiff as a factory model in the chair opposite and Markus had scolded me many times for smiling too thinly, ‘like a flight attendant’ he’d said. Having me replay a memory to get rid of that self conscious air was a stroke of genius on Markus’s part. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That bad, hmm” he grins up at me. I realise I haven’t said anything for a while and apologise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s perfect. I think he’s going to love it. </span>
  <b>I </b>
  <span>love it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Markus turns his grin back to his finished piece, a portrait of me sitting against a background of climbing vines and roses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, I’m much more pleased with your expression. I’m sure Hank is used to you smiling at everyone like a Walmart greeter but it’s not quite special enough for a two year anniversary present”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hum and nod slowly, my eyes tracing this image of my face that’s so familiar yet so foreign to me all at once. I guess this must be what I look like when I look at Hank.</span>
</p>
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